Equilibrium
by MeLaNch0LYdreams
Summary: James Wilson's lfe was turned upside down when he meets the love of his life in the middle of the I-195. He just doesn't know it yet. House/Wilson, Amber/Wilson.


Equilibrium

Coffee for two

The brunette groaned to himself, beads of sweat rolling down the back of his neck agonizingly slow. The radio stuttered and he cursed, whopping it with more force than necessary. He poked his head out of the window and bit back the frustrated almost sob threatening to rip past his lips. The endless line of cars vibrated in place, as they had been for almost _twenty minutes. _

All he wanted was some gas!

The fuel was ticking dangerously low, if this persisted he would be left in the middle of the road. Late. Again. Cuddy wasn't going to be any more forgiving than she usually was, which really wasn't much at all considering the hours he was working.

He prepared to dial the mechanic slash tow truck service man he had gotten familiar since he moved to Princeton. You would think being an oncologist would give you a better ride, but the crippling debts he had accumulated from many failed marriages and sadly, child support, didn't leave much for himself. So as happy as a 2007 Nissan Micra would make him, he would have to settle for the 1994 Honda Civic his dad left him before he went to college. Its outsides were faded and a deep forest green, which wasn't exactly the colour scheme he was going for. It looked truly sad next to Cuddy's Clk500, even more so when he had to physically down the windows while she stifled laughter behind her tinted windows. He wonders if she knows about the white line he 'accidentally' made to her passenger door in retaliation.

Just as he was about the hit the call button, the car in front of him crept almost a full vehicle length away. _Yes_, he thought, thanking the driver in his head a million times.

He full-out yelled as a slim motorcycle cut him off.

He contemplated whether he was already at rock bottom yet. It would certainly justify what he did next.

He honked his horn once, let it blare for a long moment and then killed the engine when the rider made no gesture to show he was listening to the blaring horn behind him.

"HEY!"

the stout man perched on the bike visibly perked at the act of verbal aggression but stayed put.

"Are you deaf-" As a doctor, he should have been a bit more sensitive with the way he threw that word around "I'm trying to get your attention!"

His aim fell short and instead his arm went barreling towards the glistening helmet and off it went. He wasn't expecting the way he froze, uncaring of the threatening _crack_! the helmet made with the concrete.

The man has a roguish charm to him, jaw, cheekbones, and eyes so undeniable sharp he felt pierced by simply being looked at by them. His blue eyes were narrowed in a frosty glare, their depths so intense he reconsidered confronting the stout man altogether. The wispy hair clinging to his jaw and at his temples was deceptively light and telling of his age and- he had to remind himself that he was ogling an older man for Pete's sake!

He was caught off guard by the venomous "Can I help you?" the roguish biker sniped, thick with sarcasm.

He opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the simultaneous horns going off from the surrounding cars.

"Yeah, didn't think so."

The engine revved once, twice. And then he was gone.

The horns announced their angry complaints and he swore some more.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

He caught sight of the clock tower and blanched.

Shit.

**Princeton Plainsboro Hospital**

**11:02 AM**

**25/10/10**

"You wanted to see me?"

He tried to keep his tone professional, trying so very hard not to let the neediness bleed into his tone. Bringing up his personal life was only adding fuel to the impending flame waiting for him.

"Have a seat."

Cuddy beckoned to the seat in front of her with a sharp gaze, reminiscent of the eyes from this morning. The seat was designated for few purposes, namely to get fired, to tell a patient they were dying-and did he already mention being fired?

He wasn't even sitting down before Cuddy started mouthing off to him. "You aren't pulling your weight Wilson. You're a mess. You're supposed to be representing this hospital, and as it stands you're doing a poor job of it."

Guilt seized him and sunk in the pit of his stomach heavily.

"And then there was the yelling this morning"

"Wait, how do you now about that?"

She rolled her eyes and gestured for him to come around the desk. She booted up her computer and for some reason, pulled up Youtube.

"Cuddy-"

"Watch."

Literally titled 'Princeton-Plainsboro doctor loses his shit' featured a shoddy two minute film taken from a low res cellphone camera of a breakdown he had no memory of having as he talked down )screeched was more like it) at the biker clearly trying to ignore him. His ears turned warm and cheeks bloomed with colour, the embarrassment persisting longer at his very plain gawking. The video closed with a giggle that was more breath than sound, and Cuddy leaned back behind him, crossing her arms.

The office was silent.

"I don't specifically care for what you do outside the hospital, but I care when it affects my job."

Wilson's throat closed up, eyes pricking with hot, unwelcome tears. This was it.

"This is a warning."

Huh?

Wilson turned to the doctor with disbelieving eyes.

"You're a good guy, James." Cuddy bit her lips, running a dark through her slightly curly locks. "Most people don't see that."

It's true.

All everyone saw was the quiet, overworked oncologist only committed to memory because his streak of 'womanizing.'

Wilson wasn't exactly sure what 'womanizing' translated to, if it was considered being left in the dust with an empty wallet and empty heart because he simply didn't make the funds an oncologist was supposed to have.

Women weren't bad, per se, but in the wise words of Young MC,_ "Girls are sophistic, materialistic, looking for a man makes them opportunistic,"_ rang too true in his own ears.

Overall, he was the anti-social Casanova that wasn't really easy on the eyes (and Casanova was stretching it.)

"You're dismissed."

He left Cuddy's office in a daze, barely noticing the chattering pair and the bright eyes locked in to him.

**Suite 3245, 77 Eaglewood Bvl**

**25/10/10**

**8:06 PM**

"I was thinking of going on a trip, you know? Just the two of us."

"We can't afford it."

He pushed his macaroni-Amber wasn't really the best of cooks, but he could deal-around his plate, unable to bear the look of her crestfallen expression.

" ."

"Thanks for dinner." he mumbled, the silence doing nothing to ease the guilt digging its way into his insides. Amber merely nodded, chewing the macaroni numbly.

Wilson glanced at the sparse apartment and mismatched furniture, the space bare of photographs and personal effects that gave off only the appearance of a house, not a home. Their respective medical degrees hung side by side, and it made his insides churn uncomfortably. Lately the apartment just felt like returning back to his office, the only difference being that the walls weren't glass and his wife wasn't there. Which should have comforted him, but it only brought forth a sense of dread. He could feel her dull eyes on him, devoid of meaning as he left the dining room and slipped the flask from out of its hiding place, letting the spirits burn their way down his throat.

**I-195 W**

**26/10/10**

**9:45 AM**

The next day persisted in a similar fashion.

This time, James had the good sense to strip off his lab coat and instead only kept on his light blue button up. His gas tank was full, Amber was in a relatively pleasant mood, and the wave of nausea from last night had cleared. All in all, he had high hopes for himself today. It was really a shame that he was so naïve.

"I may be late," he cut the engine, the pattern of cars lined up in front of him brought forth a sense of déjà vu. "Traffic."

Cuddy muttered something sounding suspiciously like 'what else is new,' and hung up immediately. Wilson was starting to see a need for nicer friends.

To the oncologist's delight, he fiddled with the radio as it spurred to life and ignored the sweat clinging to the back of his neck as it fuzzily started to play a One Direction song. He endured the first verse and changed the radio station altogether, settling back into the seat more as Radiohead streamed through the speakers.

Traffic actually let up when he focused more on the radio than the sweltering heat in his car and stopped singing through mid verse as he caught sight of a familiar bike. Wilson sighed to himself and ignored the impulse to go back outside and pester the older man. He glanced at the traffic, now reduced to a single car in front of him and back at his rear view mirror.

He was gone.

Huh.

James hummed to himself as he neared Princeton-Plainsboro's parking lot and twirled the keys around his forefinger. For once not lat-

"GET OUT OF THE WAY!'

Was too late a warning when the vehicle nailed his hip, then shoulder, followed by the back of his head. He blacked out instantly.

When he came to, (minutes later, most likely) the biker was hanging over him, shining a light into his eyes.

"_You." _

A number of things would have been acceptable to say, like; who are you? Why are you touching my face? What were you doing while I was asleep? Or maybe 'get-that-light-out-of-my-face.'

Based on the way the biker's face contorted, he may have said that last bit out loud.

"Did you just run me over?" He gasped without thinking, ignoring the higher functions in his brains whispering that maybe he could sue this stranger to pay for the vacation Amber wanted. The pain from being ran over came back with a vengeance as his body regained feeling, the universe's sign of probably answering 'don't even bother.'

"No, but I probably should have. Would have saved myself a lot of trouble." He intoned cryptically, poking a spot under his eye that has Wilson cringing in displeasure. "That's going to leave a wicked bruise."

"No shit," he wheezes, brows scrunched together as pain fully blooms in his lower back. "I appreciate the first aid treatment, but could you get me a real doctor? Since we're outside of a real hospital right now?"

The biker smirks, and as irritating as it should be, the expressions looks as if it belongs there. "On one condition."

He moans at this, angry tears building up behind his eyes. "My impending death is not conditional! I'll pay for your helmet or something-now please. Get me a doctor." It occurred to Wilson that it was the biker that should be paying him and not the other way around, but logic isn't really on your side after a head injury.

"So melodramatic," The man sighs laboriously and staggers-wait, what?-to his feet and leans on a retractable cane and pops his neck. "I'll hold you to that. Coffee for two?"

Wilson chose not to answer, only moaning in response.


End file.
